


You Clicked Your Heels and Wished For Me

by someidiothasice



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Fics for Pics, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance, UST, i_reversebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someidiothasice/pseuds/someidiothasice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is nothing like the cartoons, or the post-its, or the clay figurines left for him like little prizes out of crackerjack boxes. This is special. This is <i>personal</i>, for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Clicked Your Heels and Wished For Me

**Author's Note:**

> A love story. With graffiti.

_"You should've made some plans with me, you knew that I was free--"_ [1]

Arthur jolts upright wildly. Then he sinks back in bed and rolls onto his front, groaning into his pillow. Eames thought he was being so clever the other day, changing his ringtone. Arthur reminds himself again to change it back to the neutral _ringring!_ at the earliest possible chance.

  
He flails his arm out and grabs his iPhone. He doesn't care much about answering the call, just about shutting Lady GaGa the hell up already.  


  
"What?" He tucks the phone between his cheek and the pillow. He receives a soft chuckle in response.  


  
"Good morning to you too, handsome." Eames sounds far too bright and cheery for--Arthur pulls his head back to stare blearily at the face of his phone--fuck, five in the morning. "Consider this your wake-up call."  


  
"I don't actually have anywhere to be today." Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and pulls a face. "Mario's tailing our mark and Lena's finished with the compound. You know, this was the one rare day I could actually sleep in."  


  
"Liar. You slept in last Tuesday." Eames voice goes all soft and affectionate, which makes Arthur scowl. Then he pauses for a second and opens his eyes. Eames is supposed to be in Philadelphia.  


  
"You are a sick, sick person, Eames."  


  
"And you need to wake up. Trust me, love." There's something tense in his voice, beneath the overly bright cheerfulness. Arthur sighs and rubs his free hand over his face.  


  
"What's the weather like?" he asks, just to make sure.  


  
"Cloudy. Looks like rain."  


  
Arthur has already thrown back his sheets and is stuffing one leg in his discarded trousers by the time Eames is halfway through the sentence. "I'll grab an umbrella. See you in two weeks?"  


  
"No, this weekend." Eames laughs a little over the unease. "You'll know where."  


  
The line goes dead and Arthur slips the phone into his pocket and reaches for his shirt. When he straightens, his fingers buttoning his sleeves quickly, something outside of his window catches his eye. Something bright and red that was definitely not there when he went to sleep.  


  
Arthur rolls across the bed and moves to the side of the window, peeling the sheer curtain back just enough.  


  
Through the dim blue light of early morning the bird is bright and bold, holes already in its wings where the wind has ripped the flimsy post-its from their glue. Arthur smiles at the phoenix and thinks _Minsk,_ fondly. He wonders if he left that navy peacoat at the apartment in Helsinki.  


By the time Edwards' men get there he is already on his way to Belarus.

 ****

*

They're in Miami, fresh off of two separate jobs. Arthur's on the first flight back home to Paris in the morning, Eames is gearing up for a job in Rio, and they are both riding high off the satisfaction that comes with finishing a job, especially when it ends well.

Eames is in love with his new coffee maker. He won't shut up about it. He waxes lyrical about the stupid thing for nearly an hour while knocking back gin-and-tonics like he's auditioning for a role in _Mad Men._ It's a sign of his intoxication that he doesn't scoff when Arthur gives him shit for cheating on his beloved tea.

Arthur sips his scotch at a much more sedate pace, but he loosens his tie and pushes the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms --and drips salsa onto his pants. It's a sign that he is becoming intoxicated when he merely grunts, wipes half-heartedly at the spill, and proceeds to smear it all over his thigh.

Eames gesticulates wildly and a bit of his drink ends up on the table and over his phone. Arthur just laughs at him while Eames frantically wipes it down, hoping for no water damage.

They talk about everything and nothing, and as the night goes on, at some undistinguished point Eames realizes the tip of his boot is caught in the hem of Arthur's trousers.

It takes nearly an hour for him to remove it, and that's only because he has to use the loo. When he gets back, Arthur's got his foot up on the seat, and Eames sits right next to it, letting the heat from Arthur's ankle warm his hip.

Arthur pays for their food and drink with two crisp hundred-dollar bills. Eames rolls his eyes. On their way out, before they split, Eames lifts the arm that he had draped around Arthur's shoulders and ruffles his hair.

Arthur just pokes Eames viciously under his left armpit, his most ticklish spot. Eames lets out a high pitched squawk and knees Arthur in the arse when he turns to walk away.

Arthur throws a glare over his shoulder, but Eames catches the way it turns into a smirk as he turns away.

Eames walks off in the opposite direction. If he's smiling, too, there's nobody around to notice.

 ****

*

"No, no, it was supposed to be here by Wednesday at the latest. _At the latest._ "

Arthur sidesteps an elderly woman bending over. When he looks down, he realizes that she dropped her scarf, and he bends quickly to pick it up and hand it to her. She gives him a grateful smile and he gives her the tiniest one back, trying not to be rude; and then he scowls anyway.

" _No_ , I told you. I ordered it nearly three weeks ago!" He knows his voice is rising in pitch, and the woman raises an eyebrow at him as he nods and walks away.

"It is Friday and my package is still not here-- Yes, Kyle, I realize that, but you must also realize that when a person pays extra for expedited delivery, and they are given a due date, and then their package is _still not here_ on said date, the buyer might end up just the tiniest bit angry."

Arthur sighs in relief when he spots his building down the street. He stops at the corner deli, where there are still a few old newspaper machines out front, and puts a couple of coins into one for the _Sunday Times_. When he looks up, his eye is caught by a familiar scrawl on the brick building across the street, in blue spraypaint.

  
 _Cook a sheep  
Kill a cow  
Whet the appetite_   
[2]  


Kyle drones on for a few minutes while Arthur barely pays attention. Both the 'c' and the 'w' have slight curls to them. They are barely there, but they _are_ there. Arthur tilts his head to the side and studies the words. Then he grins.

"Look, Kyle, I'm going to hang up now. I expect my package to be at my door no later than six o' clock. _Today_. That gives you just under four hours to make sure that my Kopi Luwak has made it where it is supposed to be. Which is at my apartment."

Arthur hangs up and rereads the words. Then he shakes his head and crosses the street. He has one small detour to make before he goes home.

Arthur hangs his coat on the stand next to the front door without bothering to comment on whatever it is he hears frying in the background. When he walks into the kitchen, bottle in hand, Eames is at the stove tending to two gorgeous fillets. He walks to the counter and puts the wine down gently. Then he rolls up his shirtsleeves, picks up the wooden spoon resting on the ceramic dish and tests the sauce.

"Needs more garlic," he comments. Eames makes a noncommittal sound and leans over. Arthur shoves the spoon in his mouth and Eames hums quietly. "To what do I owe the honor of your presence, Mr. Eames?"

"Got a job for you in Manchester." Eames maneuvers around Arthur, who turns to put his back to the counter and lean against it. Eames grabs another clove of garlic. He's stirring it into the sauce when he looks up, grinning madly. "Patricia wants you there."

Arthur groans and rubs at his face. "She always wants me there. Didn't you tell her I died in Romania?"

"And in Montmarte." Eames' grin gets impossibly wider, and Arthur takes a second from his sulk to glare at him. "She's an insistent one, that girl."

Arthur sighs and crosses his arms. "What's the payoff?"

"Forty-nine apiece." Arthur wrinkles his nose, so Eames shoves the spoon back in his face. Arthur only opens his mouth because he's afraid Eames is going to get sauce all over his shirt and ruin it, and he's only had this shirt for the past two weeks. The way his life has been going lately, it might as well be a record.

"Better." Arthur nods at the spoon and licks his lips, and Eames turns back to the fillets. "What is it this time? Cheating spouse? Illegitimate love child?"

Eames raises his gaze to shoot Arthur a very amused look. Arthur bristles. "What? I know how her mind works. She loves a good drama. It's just like watching an episode of _Passions_ [3] for her."

"It's cute how well you know all of us." Eames _thwaps_ the back end of the spoon against Arthur's nose and blithely ignores the glare Arthur sends him. "Never change, pet."

"Tell me it's a custody thing and the answer is a big fat _hell no._ "

"You got it the first time. Cheating spouse. The mark lives in Jersey, but her family is here, and her and her husband are visiting soon for their child's sixth birthday."

"Lovely." Arthur reaches for the drawer handle between them and smiles beatifically at Eames' wince when it slams into his hip. "Whoops."

"You blighter." Eames voice is all fond exasperation, and so is the hip bump that follows his words. Arthur bumps him back as he pulls out the corkscrew. "You did that on purpose."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that statement." Arthur takes a few steps away and opens the wine. He leaves it on the table to breathe for a couple of minutes before dinner is finished. When he looks over his shoulder, Eames is looking down at the pan with an intense concentration he normally reserves for his replicas of Monet's _Water Lilies_.

Arthur makes his way into the bedroom to change. He really shouldn't know how Eames looks when he's in the midst of a recreation; except for how he was there last year when Eames had spent a week and an entire roll of canvas trying to recreate the famed work, before giving up and scrapping everything.

Arthur removes his suit slowly and tries to put all thoughts of Eames' workface out of his head. He pulls on a sweater and spends a few moments smoothing it down over his chest.

 _Not yet, not yet..._ he tells himself before he walks back down the hallway to discuss this latest potential job.

It's possible that he needed a couple of minutes to breathe, too.

 ****

*

When his phone farts at him, Arthur rolls over and buries his face into his pillow. A few minutes later it farts again, and he lets out a muffled moan of agony.

Arthur had got in at nearly four am last night. He had tossed his garment bag and his briefcase aside somewhere in the hallway, he thinks, and his shoes were somewhere between the steps and his bedroom door. He'd been so tired he'd only managed to get his belt off and his shirt halfway unbuttoned before he had faceplanted in the bed.

When his traitorous phone farts at him again, he shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls it out. He wiggles his head just enough and cracks an eye open to squint at the viewscreen.

 **Nine New Messages** , it tells him. Arthur drops the phone next to his head on the pillow while he rolls the thought of waking over in his mind. On one hand, breakfast. _Coffee_. And maybe an important message. Maybe somebody was at the bottom of a well. Maybe it was his sister! He perks up the tiniest bit at the thought.

On the other hand, sweet, dreamless sleep.

Arthur starts to doze and nearly drops his phone when it farts at him again. He snaps awake and rolls over grouchily, his phone still in his hand.

He stabs at the screen and when all of the messages, except for three voicemails from his sister, turn out to be from Eames, Arthur scowls up at it.

Eames is bored. Arthur knows that. Eames without a job is a real pain in the ass, because he feels the need to tag along to everybody's events, or stalk them and leave incriminating photos of them in their SpongeBob underwear around when he's on the job with them later.

Arthur hasn't been able to look at Cobb in quite the same way ever since. He's a little scarred, honestly.

The thing is Eames hasn't been on any real jobs for the past few months. He's just sort of been floating around. Eames is so bored, he just spent a weekend in Monte Carlo with the _Mormon twins_ (who act like savage children ninety-five percent of the time -- and that's just when they're on a job -- and are so below Eames it's not even funny), drinking and gambling and blowing things up for fun. Okay, so it was more of a revenge thing involving the boat of an old client who had once tried to fuck the twins over, and Eames had been along for the hell of it. Last Arthur heard of it, Eames had lost two hundred thousand at craps.

Before that, he'd popped by Maine to stalk Arthur long enough to change his message tone and paint him a lewd picture in bold red lipstick, of a buxom woman in lingerie on the bedroom mirror in his suite while Arthur had been in the shower. Before _that_ he'd been in Japan, bothering Saito by doing things like filling his bathtub with paper cranes. Saito had sent him a picture on his phone that had made Arthur shake his head.

Yes, Eames is his friend, and maybe there might be something lingering between them under the surface that they have yet to tap into, but the guy really is an insufferable prick.

He saves the voicemails for last and reads the text messages.

 _rise and shine ;) am bored. entertain me_

 _ok fine, be that way_

 _alright, but u should know ive got a pack of oreos and all 3 back 2 the future movies. i can do this all day baby_

 _really, its after 11. shouldnt u b up terrorizing the village?_

 _every time i hear cl say gigawatts i want to club him with a table leg. does this make me a bad person?_

 _should i deep fry the oreos? i think im gonna_

 

Arthur drops the phone on his chest and groans. It farts at him again. He snatches it back up and doesn't even bother to read the message. He just calls the infuriating bastard.

"What's the best thing to dip them in?"

"You're relentless. I'm trying to sleep!"

"You got in yesterday, right? It's after noon, you lazy cow."

"Eames. I need sleep. My sister is getting married and I got dragged all over God's creation last night immediately after my plane landed. Seventeen hours in the air, Eames, followed by six hours of lace and tablecloths and fucking _white gloves_ , as though anybody is going to give a shit whether or not the fucking groomsmen are wearing gloves, and if I don't get another four hours of sleep, I promise, Eames, the next time I see you, I will rip your arms off and beat you to death with them."

Arthur sags back into his pillows and realizes that somewhere in the middle of his tirade he'd sat completely up and pushed his covers back. He drags his soft down comforter up again and bundles himself in it.

Eames is quiet for a minute. Then, "sorry, I almost dropped the phone into the deep fryer so I had to put it down. What was that you were saying, pet?"

Arthur throws his phone at the open doorway and smiles at the noise it makes bouncing down the stairs.

When he wakes again, hours later, the sunlight is starting to die. He looks at his bedside clock and it tells him that he's slept until three o'clock.

He goes through the motions of waking, showers and shaves and picks his phone up from the bottom of the stairs. It didn't even have a scratch.

He's on his daily trip to the coffee shop down the street when he sees it.

A Godzilla, the size of a yeti, spray painted on the brick wall across the street from the tiny bank. It's acid green and there's a white veil hanging from its head. There's also a tiny groom clutched in its maw and it's holding a bouquet of dead roses.

He laughs the rest of the way to the shop.

 

*

 

New York City has over a million people living in Manhattan alone. That being said, it should be easy to disappear in said city.

Which makes it hard to explain why Arthur is currently hiding inside of a dumpster.

It had started last week. Well, to be fair, it had probably started seven months ago in Chicago when he'd taken the damn job. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out, a small team hired by a bitter son who had been cut off from his inheritance; only their chemist'd had dollar signs flashing in his eyes and had sold them out to Edwards senior, and apparently the man knew how to hold a grudge.

And had very good investigators on his payroll.

He'd only gotten a brief warning this time, but thank heavens Eames didn't know how to keep his nose out of Arthur's business, because if it hadn't been for the stupid cartoon drawing in sidewalk chalk on Arthur's front stoop, he might've been inside the building when the bomb went off.

He almost missed it, too. Two little girls had come round the corner and one of them had crashed into him, sending him stumbling into the metal railing at the edge of the concrete steps. Arthur had looked down and shaken his head.

Then he'd paused, because the area was a mixture of Spanish and Italians and the words on the ground were neither. Nor were they English.

Two stick figures were looking down at a wheel. One of them had a red coat on. The words coming out of their mouths, in bright blue and neon green chalk, were Russian.

 _как погода?  
Ненастно._   
[4]  


Arthur had blinked, because only Eames would leave him a stupid message like that; and really, Russian Roulette? Like _Arthur_ was the one with the gambling problem. Then he'd sighed because, _fuck_ , his time was up.

He'd been two blocks away by the time the explosion went off, and he'd hoped like hell that none of the neighborhood kids had decided to play in the abandoned building that day. It hadn't been long before the screech of tires had got louder and louder, and suddenly there'd been bullets flying by him, and he'd had to make a decision; left to the crowded playground, where the gunmen just might hold their fire and not risk killing innocent children, or right through the back alleys with more open doors and windows and less people to worry about.

It hadn't been a hard choice.

That had been two hours ago, now, and Arthur is trying not to pass out from the sweet stench of rotting meat filling his nasal cavities. He'd lost them somewhere around Ninteenth street and had gone for a few more blocks just in case. When he'd seen the taillights of the black Suburban round the corner up ahead, he hadn't thought twice, just dived for cover in the nearest space he could.

It's been a good hour and a half, though, and he's sure he is safe. He is just straightening up when he sees them. He crouches back down quickly, but they are headed in the other direction. They'd ditched the guns and were now carrying-- Arthur squints-- it looked like baseball bats. He holds his breath and waits, but it looks like they are at the end of the alley and about to round a corner.

He's just sighing in relief when Def Leppard screeches in the silence.

"God-fucking-damnit, Eames!" he hisses, fumbling for his jacket. He silences the phone and looks up, just in time to catch Thug Number One's head swiveling around.

There's a shout and Arthur flings himself out of his safe haven, running like hell for the open door. It's only a short distance away, he is almost there, when suddenly he hears a sharp crack, the world flashes white before his eyes, and he sags to the ground. The second-to-last thing he thinks before he passes out, is how ironic it is that even while trying to save his life, Eames _still_ insists on being the death of him.

The last thing he thinks is that if he makes it out of this alive, he is going to never, ever let Eames get his hands on his phone again.

 

*

 

When he wakes up, it's to the sound of screaming and bursts of gunfire. All he sees for the first fifteen seconds or so is a huge blur. Arthur knows those moving blobs are people, and he can hear the buzz of a chainsaw over the inhuman wailing, but past that he's clueless.

He gingerly wiggles around and realizes that his hands are free, which is a good thing, because it means if a gun is flung his way he'll be able to use it. Then he brings one of them up to the back of his head, which is a bad thing, because the back of his head explodes in pain when he touches it, and so does his wrist.

Arthur moans quietly and snatches his hand back. He cradles it to his chest, where it hangs limply enough for him to realize that it's broken. The second his head sluggishly makes that connection, the rest of his body wakes up, and it's nothing but _pain pain pain_ , in his leg, in his ribs, and he takes a second to hope that Edwards and his thugs get what's coming to them before he feels himself start to drift again.

He fights it, because he's still got to get out of there. Arthur doesn't know who's making all that noise, but he's pretty sure that smell is burning flesh, and he's got to get up now if he wants to make it out of there alive.

Mario's face hovering over him, half-covered in black ash and red blood, is the last thing he sees before darkness takes over again.

 

*

 

This time, when he wakes up he's surrounded by soft yellow walls. There's a pillow underneath his head and an IV in his arm.

There's an accented voice nearby, somebody speaking quietly into a phone, and Arthur looks up and squints.

"'mes?" he croaks out. He raises a hand, tries to reach out to the body on the other side of the room. His vision clears just enough for him to recognize Yusuf. He watches the chemist pocket his phone and start across the room towards him, his expression grim.

He tries to smile to convey his gratitude, even as his arm flops back down. Everything feels heavy and muted, and he looks down at his hand and wonders if Yusuf has him on something even better than morphine.

"Sleep, my friend." Yusuf's voice is quiet and soothing, and Arthur feels a sense of relief wash over him.

He's in good hands. He can trust Yusuf, he can. However... as he drifts off he feels a wave of disappointment crash over him, and can't quite figure out why it leaves him feeling so unsettled.

 

*

 

When he walks into the bar, the first thing he notices is that Arthur is, predictably, sitting in the far corner of the room. Arthur's eyes fix on him immediately, because of course the bastard has to be able to see everything in the room, the paranoid sonuva--

The second thing Eames notices is the cane.

Arthur stares balefully at him and Eames' hands clench into fists, because the purpling around Arthur's eyes and the ring of red around his neck, half-hidden by his high collar, all paint a pretty obvious picture. He resists the urge to put a hole in the wall and instead walks over.

When he reaches the booth, Eames tugs off the ridiculous patterned scarf Ariadne had thrust upon him last Christmas and drapes it over Arthur's shiny new accessory. It's dark mahogany, sleek and so very _Arthur_ that Eames would shake his head at it if Arthur didn't actually need to be using it.

"I see rumors of your death have been greatly exaggerated."

Arthur gives him a tiny smile and picks up his scotch with a hand that, while casted, is remarkably steady. "I'd expect they would have been, especially considering most of them have come straight from your mouth." Arthur takes a slow sip and Eames' eyes track the way he swallows slowly. He places the drink back on the table and leaves it there, his hand still curled around it.

"Well, what can I say," he drawls, "I had my reasons for wanting certain people to think that." Eames casually drapes one arm across the table and brushes his fingertips against the edge of Arthur's cast. Arthur's tiny smile twitches at the corner.

"How have you been, Eames?" Arthur asks, genuinely interested. He leans back in his seat just a little bit and he looks like he wants to wince, but Eames knows him well enough to know that he won't show that kind of weakness. Not in public, anyway.

"Lady Fortune has been kind to me," Eames begins. He knocks a knuckle against the cast and pulls his hand back. "You, I can see, she doesn't hold in such high regard."

"You win some, you lose some." Arthur's voice is flippant, as is the wry grin on his face, and it makes Eames' fingers curl tightly into a fist again before he catches himself.

He wants to say something right now, something along the lines of _is this what happens when I'm not there to tip the scales in your favor?_ or _let's take a break from all of this nonsense for a while and go on holiday, yeah?_ or even _I got him, darling, I got him **good** , he begged at the end_, but he bites his tongue before that last one can come out. It's nothing that Arthur really needs to know.

Not right now.

"You can't win all of the time, Arthur," he chooses instead. He says it just as offhandedly, turning in his seat to wave over the lone waitress. She nods back at him, calls out a hurried "one sec, hon," and when he turns back to Arthur the other man is watching him intently. Eames holds his eyes.

"I guess you're right," Arthur says finally. Eames grabs at his chest and stares at Arthur in mock horror.

"I'm sorry, pet," he drawls in an amazed voice, "could you repeat that? I'm fairly certain you just admitted to me being right for once. Hold on, wait, before you go--" Eames holds a finger up with one hand while he digs his phone out with the other. "I want to record this moment for posterity's sake."

Arthur huffs and Eames nearly jumps when one of Arthur's knees slides between his own under the table and knocks into his gently. "Grow up."

Eames grins at him and reaches under the table to grab Arthur's knee and wiggle it playfully.

"Look at you, Arthur. Telling _me_ to grow up when you're nothing but skin and bones." Eames lets go and somehow Arthur's leg stays where it is. "Have you not eaten in four weeks? You look like a little boy playing dress up."

The waitress finally makes her way to their table and smiles down at them. "What can I get for you?"

"I'd love a pitcher of your finest ale, please, and a plate of something disgustingly greasy and fried." Eames looks over at Arthur's wrinkled nose. "And another scotch for my friend, please."

"Right away, hon."

"I'll be back." Arthur stands, rather abruptly, and it looks like he's about to sway so Eames reaches forward before he even realizes what he's doing. Arthur smacks lightly at his hands and mutters something about "medication" and "handsy" as he grabs his cane and winds Eames' scarf around his own neck. Eames snatches his hands back and tries to avert his eyes, but the sight of Arthur limping away makes something settle, heavy and uneasy, in his stomach.

He's halfway through the pitcher and a plate of the gooiest cheese fries he's ever had the pleasure of eating when Arthur finally comes back to the table. Only it's a rather big table, you see, and while Arthur had made a face at the thought of something 'greasy and fried' he obviously was full of shit, because he plops down next to Eames and digs his good hand right in there.

Eames raises an eyebrow at the orange mess of Arthur's hand. Arthur grins at him through a mouth that's filled with whiz and fried potato. One of the fries hangs from his mouth, half eaten, and Eames freezes, has a bizarre moment of thinking "what if I just--" before the French fry falls and lands in a orange sticky mess on the scarf.

There's a beat of silence. Then Arthur coughs and reaches for a napkin. He dips it right into the pitcher and makes a valiant attempt to save the ugly garment while Eames grins stupidly at him.

Arthur's fingers are clumsy and have more cheese on them than the droopy fry now on the table. He's just making more of a mess, and Eames wonders if he should really be mixing alcohol and his meds before he reminds himself that Arthur is thirty-four, he can make his own decisions.

He does take the napkin from him, though.

"It's a goner, pet. Just leave it."

Arthur laughs, and from this close Eames can see every little line at the corners of his eyes. They are all so very... charming.

"I think I may have improved it, actually." Arthur pulls the scarf off and opens it a little, smirking at the ugly greenish-looking stain. Then he wipes his hands off on it, crumbles the dirty fabric into a ball, and throws it onto the seat on the other side of the booth.

Eames laughs and does the same with the napkin. He also edges Arthur's scotch away the tiniest bit. Just in case.

It ends up only taking one more glass of scotch for Arthur. He's tired, obviously, still run down from his injuries, and it's not like Eames' hotel is far. It's closer than Arthur's, though, and that's what tips the scales in his favor.

Arthur is clingy the entire trip; he puts his hands all over Eames' waist, wraps his arms around his neck from behind when Eames is attempting to stick his key in the slot. Eames manages to get Arthur's shoes and jacket off without much hassle; the waistcoat is a bit trickier because Arthur suddenly goes into defensive mode and keeps smacking Eames' hands away. Eames relents, because that fucking cast is heavy and rough and it hurts when Arthur donks him with it.

He walks to the closet and searches for a spare hanger, but they're all in use, so he hangs the jacket over the back of the bathroom door and leaves it cracked while he goes inside. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, trying not to stare at the arm of the jacket that's peeking around the door like a tawdry little secret.

Arthur is in the other room. Yes, he's still partially dressed, but his hair is a mess and he's got cheese encrusted in his cast and he is _lying in Eames' bed_ , just ripe for the taking, and--

They're drunk. Arthur is on pain meds. Now is not the fucking time.

Eames rinses and spits, and when he comes back into the small room, Arthur is passed out cold on the bed. He's managed to get under the coverlet, but apparently couldn't be bothered to take off his shirt or pants. He's curled up a little, and he's got his arms crossed over his chest. Eames sits on the free side of the bed and stares.

Arthur's mouth is open the tiniest bit. Eames cracks a smile, because Arthur _snores_. He hadn't realized, not even when they'd had to share a room for a week back in Dakar. Arthur had always been asleep after him and awake before hims and Eames kept waiting for the night Arthur would pass out first, because he wanted to check to make sure that he wasn't a freaking cyborg or something.

But now, listening to Arthur's soft snores and looking down at his gaunt face, Eames knows the truth.

He gets out of his overshirt and trousers quietly, and slips into bed. Eames pushes his body close, close enough to feel the heat coming off of Arthur's body, and presses a hand to the mattress between them.

He drifts off to the dull sound of the outside traffic, the television from the neighboring room, and Arthur's slightly noisy breathing.

 

*

 

When Arthur's phone beeps quietly at them, both of their eyes open slowly.

Arthur blinks rapidly, while Eames barely drags his to half mast. Arthur meets his eyes and yawns with his mouth closed. He reaches up to shut the annoying beeping off, then drags his hand over his face.

Eames watches Arthur wake up, takes in the slight stretch of his legs and the tiny head roll and then the way his entire body tenses up as he prepares to roll off the bed. It makes him scowl. He's tired and comfortable and they shared a bed all night without even touching after all of that... whatever it was on the trip back to his hotel, and he's finally to the point where he's gotten sick of this dance.

Eames reaches out and lays his hand over Arthur's. The cast is bulky, rough and cold against his palm, but Arthur's skin under his fingertips is warm and slightly moist from breathing over the back of his wrist for most of the night. It's only a light touch, but it makes Arthur freeze. Their eyes are both wide open now.

"Don't go." Eames slides his fingers between Arthur's and rubs the pad of his thumb over a neatly trimmed nail. Arthur's fingers twitch.

"Eames," Arthur murmurs. He closes his eyes and presses his face into the pillow. "I've got a seven o'clock flight to Atlanta."

"Don't go," Eames repeats. This time he shifts his body closer, past the annoying two inches that have been separating them since the bar, and presses the front of his thighs to Arthur's, presses one of his knees gently between Arthur's own knobby ones, until the back of Arthur's arm comes into contact with Eames' chest.

Arthur just stares at him. And stares. The bruising around his right eye is awful, and this close Eames can count no less than seven small scars on Arthur's face, and his eyebrows really aren't as funny up close and personal as Eames always thought they would be.

Finally Arthur closes his eyes and presses his face back into the pillow. He shifts his entire body, and Eames takes it as the cue it is and wraps his arm around Arthur's waist. Arthur slides his good hand down Eames' chest to his stomach. He pulls up the threadbare shirt Eames has on and rests his entire palm against Eames' bare side. Arthur opens his legs a little more and Eames' leg locks into place and if only he could stay up and enjoy this.

But Eames is exhausted, they both are, and it doesn't take long for them to fall asleep again. Only this time...

They are in the exact same position, only their heads are sharing a pillow and their noses are just barely brushing against each other. Eames opens his eyes and closes them again. Then he rubs his nose gently against Arthur's as they stretch languidly.

Arthur's hand is a burning presence where it is pressed against his back under his shirt. Seconds ago it was dangling lifelessly, and now it is pressed flat against his skin, stroking over the small of his back lightly.

Eames shifts slightly and Arthur's legs tighten around his. Arthur lets out a small sound, something like a whine, and Eames smiles tiredly.

"Morning," he breathes out. Arthur tenses his entire body and Eames' eyes open rapidly, because if this is Arthur going into panic mode--

Then Arthur lets out another small whine and Eames realizes Arthur is just stretching, is too tired to hold back any embarrassing noises, and he tightens his arm around his waist gratefully. Arthur goes completely limp against him and presses closer.

 _I could wake up like this every day,_ Eames thinks, right before things go pear-shaped.

 

*

 

"Afternoon," Arthur corrects. He doesn't open his eyes. "I still have to go to Atlanta."

"Of course." Eames tilts his head to the side, just a little, and moves even closer. Arthur can feel his breath on his lips. "The whole Stevenson thing. I understand."

Arthur opens his eyes and catches Eames'. He takes a moment, lets their breaths mingle in the half-an-inch of space between them, before he decides that he's not ready, it's not time yet, he's lost the cane but still has the cast and an annoying limp and things would be better off--

Arthur rolls out of the bed and stretches, facing the window. He cracks his neck and shakes out his sore leg before he bends over and picks up his discarded waistcoat. He eyes his wrinkled button-down with distaste before pulling it off completely. His undershirt will have to do for the walk back to his hotel.

"I'll see you in Mexico?" Arthur folds his shirt and waistcoat into a small pile and looks around for his jacket. Eames helpfully points to the bathroom doorway, and Arthur nods his thanks.

He's halfway down the block before it registers. Eames didn't answer him.

 

*

 

Arthur waits inside of the bar for three hours, nursing a glass of scotch, before he gives up and goes back to his motel.

He checks his emails, makes sure his phone has service. Then he does a little digging and hey, two hours later he finds out that Eames isn't a) dead, b) in jail, or c) anywhere on the map. The man has dropped off the face of the earth. The last time anyone has seen him was in Croatia, and that was two weeks ago.

Arthur stays in Veracruz for two more days before he goes home. He flies first class, and the scotch they serve him tastes like rubbing alcohol in his mouth; bitter, sharp, and stinging.

 

*

 

"This isn't funny," Arthur tries. He pulls his phone back and wishes briefly that he had an old-style flip phone so he could snap it shut in his frustration. Instead he stabs viciously at the 'end call' icon on the screen and drops his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie.

He taps his fingers on the window and slouches back into the cushions. It's raining and the weather certainly fits his mood.

It's been over two months of radio silence. Ever since that night, the one Arthur knows was a long time coming. Eames hadn't said anything past his flippant 'I understand', and hasn't answered any of his calls or emails since.

Arthur would call him a child, if he would pick up his damn phone. Only...

Arthur is pretty sure it was himself who acted like the child. He vaguely remembers the night they met up. There had been fries, which were good, and there had also been alcohol, which was bad. Bad, because Arthur had been flying high on painkillers, and he had only been supposed to have one glass, which had turned into two, which had turned into three, and then there had been a pitcher of beer, and he'd somehow woken up in Eames' bed, to those expressive eyes and his soft fingers, and Arthur had _run like hell._

He can't even say why he'd ran, though. They've been dancing around this thing for years now, and sooner or later one of them was going to have to acknowledge it. Arthur always thought it would happen naturally. Maybe over Arthur's stovetop while Eames made dinner one night, or in Eames' studio in Yorkshire where they'd be surrounded by the smell of turpentine and canvas.

Not some morning after, a quick grope in a cheap motel room after a night of hard drinking.

Yes, he realizes that the location didn't really matter. Yes, he knows that one of them could die tomorrow. Yes, Arthur is certain that this thing between them, so fragile yet so strong, could blossom and grow, and the _where_ and the _how_ wouldn't matter in the long run, as long as it _happened_.

To have it be Eames who manned up first, though, was a surprise. After all of this time Arthur can't believe it was him who was the weak link. Eames had reached out and Arthur had turned tail and now the bastard was punishing him for it. Arthur sits upright quickly and nearly spills his tea.

Or Eames could have decided enough was enough, and let it all go.

He's just getting into a funk, thinking all sorts of stupid things like 'you can't lose what you've never had' and 'you can't always get what you want' when he realizes he's turned into a thirteen year old _girl_ and his tea has gone cold.

Arthur gets up to refill his mug and eyes his liquor cabinet as he passes by. He drinks half the mug in his kitchen, staring out at the gray sky, before he stalks to the cabinet and yanks out the Jameson.

He's enjoying some tea-flavored whiskey when his phone rings in his pocket, a nice quiet _ringring!_ and it's weird, how he sort of misses the obnoxious screech of some heavy metal band screaming at him every time it goes off.

"Yeah?" He doesn't even bother checking the screen, but before the person on the other end can say anything there is a loud thump coming both through the connection and from the front stoop. He's up in a heartbeat, throwing open the door before he realizes he even moved, and then he's sighing in disappointment.

"Fuck, grab those?"

Arthur glances down and sees it was his sister who called, and is now balancing a shitload of bags and boxes and... a scrapbook? in front of his door. He pastes a smile on his face and bends to pick up the bags she dropped. He catches sight of shoe boxes inside of them and holds back a groan. He ushers her into his house and watches from the sidelines for a good ten minutes as she talks and rants and circles and poses. He's nodding at something when she walks over and pulls the mug from his hands.

He makes a half hearted attempt to stop her, but the way she coughs and gags after she takes a sip is worth it.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Arthur! It's ten in the morning!"

He shrugs and moves to sit on the edge of his couch between a pair of two-inch and four-inch heels. He fingers the edge of the big scrapbook she brought over and ignores the way she's staring at him.

She pushes the shoes off of the couch and closes the book. Then she turns and faces him head on. "Alright, I'll bite. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. You're really going with the red for the girls?"

"Don't give me that bullshit. You don't want to talk wedding with me now, and I'm cool with that."

"No, no it's fine." Arthur waves a hand vaguely. "I've just got a lot on my mind. You know. Job-related stuff."

"Yeah, that might work on the rest of the family, but I know you just a little better than Uncle Peter and Aunt Jackie. I'm a _therapist_ , you idiot. I get paid for this, and you, buddy, have something heavy on your mind that isn't related to the color of my bridesmaids' gowns."

"It's just..." Arthur shrugs again and bites his lip. "There's this guy."

"Oh, God. Hang on." She gets up and walks to the open liquor cabinet. He cracks a smile when she grabs the bottle and brings it back to the couch. "Something tells me we're going to need this."

"I knew there was a reason I loved you." Arthur's smile goes from small to huge when she takes a long pull straight from the bottle.

"Okay." She puts the bottle down and leans back into the couch. "Okay. Tell me all about it, little man."

Arthur's smile turns into a scowl as he takes the bottle back and refills his mug. "You're only six minutes older than I am."

"And I'm prepared to lord those six minutes over you for the rest of our natural lives." She kicks off her shoes and tosses a bag filled with cloth samples onto the floor. "Now. Start talking."

 

*

 

"It lives."

Eames looks up and gives him a smile. It's genuine, and he does look happy to see him, but something about it seems off. "Hey you. It's been a while."

Arthur smacks Eames over the head with a rolled up newspaper. Eames dodges and grumbles under his breath as he goes back to his sketchpad. Arthur sits next to him and stares out at the water. He looks down at the sketchpad and shakes his head.

The scenery is ugly, not too surprising considering the location. Yet Eames has somehow turned the lake and boathouse into something beautiful, using just a pencil. "Looks good."

"Thanks." Eames tucks the pencil behind his ear and sits back against the tree. "I've got a job for you."

"I already have a job." He doesn't, not really. Not unless he counts talking his sister off a cliff. And there's something coming up in Prague he's been debating over. But Eames called, so he didn't really think. He just went.

"Ten grand for less than a week's work."

Arthur shifts. "Go on."

"I need you to run point on a double blind."

Arthur groans. "I've had enough smoke and mirrors for a while, thanks."

"That's fine." Eames shrugs and grabs his pencil again. Arthur furrows his brows. He'd expected more of a fight.

He nudges Eames' elbow when he begins to draw again and takes Eames' grumbling with a grain of salt. "That's it? 'It's fine'?"

"You can't do every job, right?" Eames erases and keeps his eyes on the page. "You spread yourself thin enough as it is."

Arthur watches the sure strokes of his hand for a minute. "That was mature of you. Almost... sweet."

"I'm not as bad as you think, Arthur." Eames snorts and the corner of his mouth curls up into a tiny smile. Arthur doesn't hold his smile back, even though Eames won't look up long enough to see it. "How's the wedding planning going?"

Arthur sighs melodramatically and pulls off his hat. He lets his head thunk back against the tree and lets loose on the perils of satin and hairspray and cake tastings until he looks up and realizes Eames is looking at him now.

"What?"

Eames is watching him intently. Usually Arthur can read him like a book. Eames lets it be known when he is amused or pissed or feeling jollier than Santa on Christmas Eve, so Arthur _knows_ something isn't right here. He's just opening his mouth to say something about it when Eames taps him on the nose with the eraser.

"I never realized how much you knew about women's lingerie. I'll have to remember to give you a call next time I have to pull out a pretty young thing for a job. Lilac or yellow?"

Arthur hits him so hard with his knee the sketchbook goes tumbling, but Eames' laugh sounds normal enough and his eyes are crinkling at the corners, so Arthur does the only thing he can. He laughs a little and lets his hand fall to Eames' shoulder.

"Thanks for the offer, but no thanks." He pushes himself to his feet and dusts the back of his pants off. Eames holds the hat up and Arthur lets their fingers brush when he takes it back. Eames looks back down at his page and grips the pencil tightly.

Arthur nudges his thigh with the toe of his shoe. "I'll see you later?"

Eames looks up and gives him another one of those genuine-but-slightly-off smiles. "Couldn't get rid of me if you wanted to." He goes back to his page and Arthur's just putting his hat back on as he walks away when Eames calls out.

"Hey, Arthur?"

Arthur looks over his shoulder. "Yes, Mr. Eames?"

This time the grin is completely goofy and _ahhh, there he is_ , Arthur thinks.

"That hat is ridiculous."

Arthur just flips up his collar, gives Eames a nonplussed look, and walks away.

 

*

 

Three weeks later Arthur comes to the door of his rented apartment in Los Angeles and finds a large, padded envelope jutting out from under a welcome mat he's pretty sure he never put there.

He takes it inside to his living room. He recognizes the scrawl, would know it anywhere, and so he pours himself a glass of scotch before he rips open the package. A flat twelve-by-sixteen canvas panel slides out onto his lap.

He stares at the painting for a few moments before he turns it over in his hand.

There are two lines scrawled on the back and a smiley face.

 _For your collection.  
Next time just ask, pet._

Arthur hangs the painting of the lake in the foyer so he can see it every time he walks in. When he's finished in LA, it travels home with him and ends up in the extra room between a few crumpled replicas of _Water Lilies_ and a torn piece of sketch paper.

 

*

 

When he sees it, the first thing Arthur thinks is _He was right, the hat is stupid._

The second thing he thinks is _God, Eames._

There's something magnetic happening in the lower regions of Arthur's body, something pulling him closer to the wall, and before he knows what's happening he's standing right in front of it. He leans forward, mesmerized by the cut of his suit, the sweep of his own hair. He reaches out and touches his own shoulder, feels the rough texture of brick under his fingers and something under his hand feels like it comes alive.

  


He lets his fingers trace over the 'e' and imagines the hand that was right where his is now, a day ago, maybe more. Some punk has taped a flyer next to it, advertising a band playing at some club, and he pulls it off and lets it float to the ground.

This is nothing like the cartoons, or the post-its, or the clay figurines left for him like little prizes out of crackerjack boxes. This is special. This is _personal_ , for the both of them.

He backs up enough to get all of it and snaps a picture with his phone. Then he sends a text.

 

*

 

The bar is another generic hole in the wall. Eames is in a corner booth with his back to the door, so when Arthur walks in he gives himself a moment to steel his nerves.

This time when he sits next to him, there isn't anything running through him stronger than the coke he drank on the train.

Eames looks up and smiles at him. He kicks at the bag Arthur drops at their feet and turns his entire body.

"Coming or going?"

Arthur turns his body as well and takes everything in. The scruffy face, the ugly shirt, the stupid pocketwatch Eames loves. He takes it all in and wants to change nothing about this moment, not even the awful gel slicking Eames' hair back.

Arthur scoots closer and leans in just enough to get his point across.

Eames makes a soft sound of surprise into his mouth and doesn't respond. When Arthur pulls back Eames' eyes are closed.

"Well?"

Eames opens his eyes and looks around. The waitress is arguing with another patron over the cost of his tequila and the air is filled with the scent of the cigar the man at the bar is enjoying. And Arthur is right in front of him, and not running away.

"Finally." He raises a hand and signals the waitress over.

"One sec, hon!" she calls out, and it's just like before, only now Arthur is looking at him with clear eyes and his hand is resting on Eames' knee under the table. It feels less like victory and more like coming home.

"What took you so long, pet?" Eames slides even closer and they really shouldn't be doing this at a bar, somewhere they could be arrested for public indecency. Eames' arm slides along the back of the booth until it's curled around Arthur's shoulders, and he leans into it like a man who has been starved for touch.

"I thought it was just a game." Arthur rubs his hand up and down the top of Eames' thigh and enjoys the way Eames' eyes fall to half mast. "You never said."

Yes, definitely not a conversation they should be having in public. But they've both waited years for this. They can wait a little longer.

"But I did," Eames says, and he lets the tips of his fingers brush against the strip of skin between Arthur's collar and his neatly trimmed hair. "With every post-it, with every stick of charcoal, with every can of spray paint. I _said_."

Arthur smiles again and leans forward to brush his lips gently over his cheek. The waitress comes over to their table with a tired grin and a notepad.

"What can I get for you two?" Eames looks up at her.

"I feel like celebrating. Can we get a bottle of champagne? Do you have champagne here?"

She opens her mouth to reply but Arthur turns to smile at her.

"Forget the champagne. We'll take a pitcher of beer and a plate of something disgusting and greasy."

Eames squeezes the back of his neck and runs a finger lightly over Arthur's jaw.

"And fried, darling." Eames covers the hand resting on the inside of his thigh and tangles their fingers together. "That's the most important part."

The waitress jots something down on her pad and smiles at them. "Sure thing."

Arthur turns back to Eames and slides his foot enough so it's resting just behind Eames' ankle. Eames moves his foot and it's just like old times, only it's a thousand times better.

"I don't think we've gotten to the most important part yet." Arthur sinks into Eames' side and closes his eyes. "But we will."

**Author's Note:**

> Now for some notations:  
> [1] A lyric from _Telephone_ , by Lady Gaga  
> [2] [Bringing in the Wine](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bringing-in-the-wine/), by Li Po  
> [3] [Passions](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passions) is an American soap opera I wouldn't force my own enemy to watch  
> [4] "How's the weather?" "Rainy."


End file.
